Isabel sat at the Regency desk and studied the embossed menu. Everything sounded delicious: the egg-white omelet with tomato and basil, the muesli with fresh fruit compote, the semi-skimmed milk and warm brioche.
But it was already late morning and she didn’t want to wait for the maids to bring the room service table with its white linen tablecloth and selection of pastries and teas. She didn’t want to stand at the window sipping café au lait when she could be strolling along the Champs-Élysées and inhaling the scent of French perfume and buttery croissants.
She glanced at her red Nina Ricci dress hanging in the closet and her ivory pumps resting on the Oriental rug and shuddered. If it wasn’t for her neighbor, she might still be stranded on the balcony. She pulled a sheet of writing paper out of the desk and thought she’d scribble a thank-you. She found a pen and suddenly realized she didn’t know his last name.
She folded the paper and put the lid back on the pen. She slipped on a pair of wool slacks and a cashmere sweater. She grabbed her purse and then thought she had a better idea.
* * *
“ISN’T IT A little early to make social calls?” the man asked when she knocked on the door.
“It’s almost noon.” Isabel entered the suite. It had wide columns and a gold inlaid ceiling. A harpsichord stood in one corner and crystal vases were filled with yellow tulips.
“Is it really? I couldn’t sleep, so I started drawing,” he groaned. “Then I couldn’t stop drawing and didn’t get any sleep.”
“This is very good.” Isabel picked up a sketch of a cocker spaniel wearing boxing gloves and fighting a kangaroo.
“Do you like it?” He rubbed his chin. “I thought if Gus went to Australia he should have other adventures: rappelling off the Sydney Harbour Bridge and scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef.”
“I didn’t know cocker spaniels could swim.” Isabel frowned.
“Gus can do anything.” He studied the paper. “But you’re right, I wouldn’t want him getting stung by a stingray. I’ll send him to Ayers Rock to play the didgeridoo.”
“Alec Braxton.” Isabel had noticed the scrawled signature at the bottom of the page. “I didn’t know your last name. Are you famous?”
“I have my share of Twitter followers and Facebook fans.” He shrugged. “Gus pays for a fifth-floor walk-up in the fourth arrondissement and an annual pass to the Musée Picasso. But he will never get me a table at Le Meurice or a charge card at Le Bon Marché.” He drew back the silk drapes. “But I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Drawing is as necessary as breathing.”
“That’s how I feel about being an analyst.” Isabel placed the sketch on the mahogany dining room table. “When I turned fourteen my friends gave me sweaters and lipsticks, but all I wanted was a calculator with more functions than an airplane cockpit. I’ve always found numbers so comforting.”
“Comforting!” Alec exclaimed. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It isn’t when you think about it. You can always count on the square root of nine being three and the diameter of a circle being twice its radius.” She stopped and her brown eyes flickered. “It’s other things that are complicated: when you think you know someone and all of a sudden they behave like a complete stranger. Or when you are so happy you are as light as a balloon and the next minute everything seems as dark as the Bastille.”
“I can’t discuss philosophy on an empty stomach.” Alec unscrewed a jar of raspberry jam. He spread it on a water cracker and took a small bite. “Would you like some?”
“You’re eating raspberry jam and crackers for lunch?’” Isabel asked.
“The suite doesn’t come with meals,” he explained. “I could go out, but the Hôtel de Crillon occupies the most expensive real estate in Paris. The cafés on the Champs-Élysées charge ten euros for a soft-boiled egg.”
“I’ll buy you lunch. My boss said I must try Fouquet’s.” She paused. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be trapped on the balcony.”
Alec gazed at her glossy dark hair and brown eyes and wide pink mouth. He saw her slender neck and small waist and long legs.
“I’m sure someone would have rescued you, but why not?” He shrugged. “A ham-and-cheese omelet and black coffee sounds delicious.”
* * *
THEY TOOK THE elevator to the lobby, and Isabel thought she had never been anywhere so beautiful. The gold-flecked marble floor was scattered with ivory silk sofas and glass coffee tables holding Lalique crystal vases. A white Christmas tree almost reached the ceiling, and boxes wrapped in silver and gold tissue paper spilled onto the Persian rugs. Bellboys carried Louis Vuitton suitcases, and a woman in a mink jacket hugged a small dog in a cashmere sweater.
Isabel inhaled the scent of French perfume and hot cocoa and suddenly was so glad she was in Paris. She followed Alec down the marble steps, and they turned onto the Champs-Élysées. She gazed at the Arc de Triomphe on one end and the narrow Luxor Obelisk on the other and caught her breath. Everywhere she looked there were boutiques with green awnings and cafés with red umbrellas and window boxes filled with poinsettias.
They passed Chanel with its gold logo and Dior with its glittering evening gowns, and Isabel thought it was the most elegant street in the world. Women wore narrow knee-high boots and cashmere coats. Their hair was pulled into tight chignons, and they carried bright leather handbags.
“The last time I was in Paris it was so hot I spent all my time at the Louvre.” Isabel gazed at a patisserie window filled with trays of vanilla custards. “It was the only place you could stay cool all day for the price of a museum ticket.”
“Paris is like a fickle woman, she’s either unbearably hot or intolerably cold,” Alec mused. “When I was a child, my mother took me to the Centre Pompidou during the winter holidays. I thought she was interested in modern art, but she didn’t know what to do with a boy in the rain.”
“You grew up in Paris?” Isabel asked.
“My mother is British and married a Frenchman. I’ve lived in Paris most of my life.” He nodded. “I attended a few different lycées. I’d turn in my science test with doodles of Gus in the margin and the headmaster would call my mother to discuss my future.” He smiled. “My mother would knock on my door with a defeated expression and a list of schools that were a better fit.”
“You seem to have turned out fine,” Isabel laughed.
“My sister’s boyfriend is a neurosurgeon.” He shrugged. “I suppose I could have achieved more.”
“What does your sister do?” she asked.
Alec’s eyes were suddenly dark and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Let’s get something to eat.” He stopped in front of a café. “The smell of garlic and butter is making my stomach ache.”
* * *
LE FOUQUET’S HAD red-and-gold awnings and double glass front doors and waiters wearing white dinner jackets. They sat on the patio, and Isabel glanced at the wide plates of veal flanks and silver baskets of fresh baguettes and realized she was starving.
“Fouquet’s has been here for more than a hundred years,” Alec said. “Charlie Chaplin used to drink schnapps at the bar and Marlene Dietrich was a regular and Jackie Onassis adored the bourbon vanilla ice cream.” He put down the menu. “Are you sure you don’t want to eat somewhere else? I’d be happy with a warm pretzel from a food stand.”
Isabel glanced at the prices and felt a bit dizzy. But then she pictured the Stuart Weitzman satin pumps she’d returned to Bloomingdale’s and the Vera Wang dress that was at a designer consignment store and straightened her shoulders. She was a well-paid analyst at one of the biggest banks in America; she could afford an overpriced platter of escargots.
“Order whatever you like.” She looked at Alec and her eyes sparkled. “This afternoon we’ll be like Marie Antoinette and just eat cake.”
* * *
“SO TELL ME about you,” Alec said after they ordered lobster bisque and sides of roasted yams. “What should I know besides the fact you have very good aim and excellent taste in shoes?”
“My father loves baseball, so we attended a lot of Phillies games.” Isabel blushed. “I had the most wonderful childhood: skiing in the Adirondacks and horseback riding on my grandparents’ farm. I attended an all-girls high school and went to Bryn Mawr—”
“You attended an all-girls school?” Alec interrupted, buttering a baguette.
“What’s wrong with that?” Isabel bristled. “Agnes Irwin is a wonderful school and I had so many opportunities. I was president of the math club and a Future Business Leader of America.”
“I’m sure it taught you calculus and physics.” He looked at Isabel thoughtfully. “But you’ve had two failed engagements, so maybe it didn’t teach you about men.”
“Why should you have to learn how to fall in love? It’s the most natural thing in the world,” Isabel protested. “Babies need their mothers and schoolchildren form crushes on their teachers and old people have deep bonds with their pets.”
“For love to work, two people have to want the same thing at the same time.” Alec leaned back in his chair. “I’ve discovered that’s as likely as a man landing on Jupiter.”
“I’m sure I’ll get it right next time.” She nibbled a breadstick and her eyes were huge. “I love my career, but one can’t live without love.”
* * *
THEY ATE RICOTTA crepes with raspberry sauce for dessert and strolled along the Champs-Élysées. The sky was pale blue and the clouds were bright white and Isabel felt a tingle of excitement. The store windows were draped in red bows and filled with little black dresses and strands of pearls and quilted satin evening bags.
They entered the Place de la Concorde, and Isabel saw the giant Christmas tree and wooden chalets lining the square. There were stalls selling gingerbread houses and sausages and jars of fresh preserves. She saw booths with Chinese slippers and glass necklaces.
“Would you like your fortune read?” a woman asked. She had dark hair and wore a patterned scarf and a red felt coat.
“No, thank you.” Isabel shook her head. “I’m just admiring the pretty necklaces.”
“It only costs twenty euros,” the woman insisted.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t have time.” Isabel moved away, suddenly nervous.
She and Alec paused at the next booth, and she felt someone tugging her arm. She turned around and saw the fortune-teller rubbing her hands.
“Please, I have two children and can’t afford to buy them Christmas presents,” she implored. “They see racing cars and dolls in shop windows and beg for something to unwrap.”
Isabel opened her purse and took out a twenty-euro note.
“Please take it.” She handed it to the woman. “And tell your children, Merry Christmas.”
“I cannot accept charity,” the woman protested. “I must read your fortune.”
Isabel searched for Alec, but he was standing at the next stall, studying a selection of colored pens.
“All right, I suppose I have a few minutes.” She held out her hand. “What do you see?”
The woman turned over her hand and studied her palm. She glanced up at Isabel and then traced the tips of her fingers.
“You have an important job at a large company,” she began. “You’ll get a promotion and have an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a glass desk. I see a shiny gift in your near future.” She looked up. “Something bright and sparkly. It will not be expensive, but it will come to have great value.”
“That sounds delightful,” Isabel laughed. “Thank you, you’ve made me happy.”
“Wait, there’s more,” the fortune-teller interrupted. “You will fall in love with a French aristocrat and get married in an elegant château.” She leaned forward and grabbed Isabel’s wrist. “But there is one short line in the middle of your hand. You must be careful. You will narrowly miss being killed.”
Isabel jumped as if she had been stung by a bee. She turned and saw Alec standing in front of a wooden chalet filled with gumdrops and candy canes. “I really have to go, I’ll lose my friend.”
“Now I have earned the money.” The fortune-teller tucked the twenty-euro note in her pocket. “Be careful and listen to what I said.”
* * *
“IT’S A WONDER Parisians have decent teeth,” Alec said when she approached the booth. “There’s enough sugar here to solve the national deficit in a third world country.”
“The ricotta crepes with raspberry sauce were delicious.” Isabel smiled. “But I couldn’t eat another bite.”
She turned and caught sight of the fortune-teller and felt a slight chill. But that was ridiculous; nothing she said could possibly come true. She was an ordinary woman wearing a patterned scarf and felt coat.
“I’ve always loved magicians,” Isabel exclaimed, walking to the next booth, where a magician was putting on a show. “My mother hired a magician for my fifth birthday party and he made me levitate on a magic carpet.”
“I once saw a magician in the Marais turn a dog into a monkey,” Alec said, joining her.
“That sounds impressive,” Isabel said.
“Not to the owner of the dog,” Alec mused. “He wanted his dachshund back.”
The magician reached into his sleeve and pulled out a brightly colored bracelet. He placed three cones on a table and searched the crowd.
“Mademoiselle will guess which cone the bracelet is under.” He pointed to Isabel. “If you are correct, the priceless bracelet is yours.”
“I don’t think so.” Isabel blushed. “Pick someone else.”
“You are a beautiful woman with special powers,” he said in accented English.
Isabel hesitated and her shoulders relaxed. It was Christmas and she was in Paris—why shouldn’t she do what the magician asked?
“All right.” She pointed to the red cone. “I choose that one.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not the one.” He revealed the empty cone. “For five euros you can choose again.”
“No, thank you.” Isabel laughed. “The bracelet is lovely, but I can’t afford it.”
“Here.” Alec reached into his pocket and handed the magician a five-euro note.
Isabel studied the two remaining cones and chose the blue one.
“The bracelet is yours.” The magician removed the cone and bowed. “Merry Christmas.”
“Why did you do that?” Isabel asked as they walked toward the curb. “If I picked the wrong cone, you would have paid five euros for nothing.”
“He wouldn’t let you choose the wrong one.” Alec ate a gumdrop. “Then the other tourists would leave. Now everyone wants a chance, they’re determined to win on the first try.”
“It is lovely, thank you.” Isabel glanced at the pink-and-blue bracelet and suddenly her cheeks were pale.
“I’m feeling a little light-headed,” she stammered. “Do you mind if we go back to the Crillon?”
“Did you sample a bad piece of cheese?” Alec studied her pale cheeks. “You look a little green.”
“I’ll be fine,” she wavered. “I’d like to lie down in my suite.”
“That doesn’t sound like the girl who threw her Ferragamo pumps at my balcony and insisted her first meal in Paris be at the most famous café on the Champs-Élysées.” Alec frowned. “Did your ex-fiancé text and ask where you keep the instant oatmeal? It’s hard to forget someone when his name keeps popping up on your phone.”
“It’s nothing like that.” Isabel blushed. “A fortune-teller insisted on reading my fortune. She said I would receive a sparkling gift that had little real value.”
“Surely you don’t believe that stuff,” he said. “Fortune-tellers in Paris will do anything to separate tourists from ten euros. You should have told me, she was probably in cahoots with the magician.”
“Of course I don’t believe it.” Isabel hesitated. “But I really am tired, I just need to take a hot bath.”
She shielded her eyes from the sun and stepped onto the boulevard. A car honked and the air rushed beside her. There was a grinding of metal and she fell onto the hard cement.
“Are you all right?” Alec crouched beside her. “That taxi almost ran you over.”
Isabel tried to stand, but her knees buckled. She heard a car door open and the taxi driver yelled in rapid French.
“Please tell him I’m fine.” She rubbed her elbow. “I just need to catch my breath.”
“He was lighting a cigarette and not paying attention.” He grimaced. “I should call the gendarmes and have him arrested.”
“It was my fault,” Isabel insisted. “I crossed the street without looking.”
He scooped her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He climbed the marble steps, and they entered the lobby of the Crillon. Isabel gazed at the ornate tapestries and white Christmas tree, and her eyes filled with tears. What was she doing in the arms of a strange man when she was supposed to be on her honeymoon?
“You can put me down.” She bit her lip. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
Alec carried her across the lobby and entered a room with paneled walls and dark leather booths. It had a polished parquet floor and mosaic bar. A huge ornate mirror rested above a marble fireplace, and vases were filled with purple orchids.
“What are we doing?” Isabel demanded.
“I’m not leaving until we both have a tall drink.” He slid into a booth. “I don’t want you to lock yourself on the balcony or fall asleep in the bath.”
* * *
“I’VE NEVER BEEN much of a drinker.” Isabel sipped the gold liquid. “But I do feel better, this is superb.”
“It’s Hennessy cognac,” Alec explained. “The Crillon charges fifteen euros a shot.”
“I can’t let you pay for that,” Isabel protested. “Put it on my bill.”
“It’s the least I can do, I almost got you run over.” He paused. “You don’t look like the kind of girl who ever jaywalked in her life. Why did you jump into the street like a horse wearing blinders in the Bois de Boulogne?”
“That woman insisted on telling my fortune,” Isabel began. “She said I had an important job at a large company.”
“That hardly makes her clairvoyant,” Alec laughed. “You’re a beautiful young American shopping on the most expensive street in Paris, and you’re not wearing a wedding ring. You’re either a high-level executive or a call girl.” He gazed at her pink cashmere sweater and wool slacks. “Somehow I don’t think you’re dressed for the part.”
“Then she said I would receive a brightly colored gift that would come to have great value.”
“We went over that,” Alec replied. “She probably is in partnership with the magician. She tells your fortune, and then you win a prize. You are so pleased, you rush back and give her ten euros to tell you the names of your future children.”
“She said I was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat.” Isabel fiddled with her glass.
“That’s like saying to every Frenchwoman who arrives in New York she’s going to marry Tom Cruise or Derek Jeter.” Alec sipped his scotch. “We think Americans are all movie stars or athletes, and Americans believe the French are all direct descendants of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. I wouldn’t be surprised if American tourists assumed Paris was full of men wearing powdered wigs and pantaloons.”
“I thanked her for the lovely reading, and she said there was more.” Isabel felt something hard press against her chest. “I was going to narrowly miss being killed.”
“Is that right?” Alec asked, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a wonder more pedestrians aren’t run over. Parisian taxi drivers drive too fast and whistle at pretty girls when they should be watching the traffic light.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong, it was my fault.”
“You’re in a strange city and your wedding just got canceled.” He shrugged. “It could happen to anyone.”
“I double majored in economics and mathematics at Bryn Mawr and was in the top three percent of my class at Wharton. I planned a winter wedding for three hundred people while overseeing a multimillion-dollar merger.” She looked at Alec and her eyes were bright. “And you were right the first time, it isn’t like me at all. That’s why I’m certain the fortune-teller can predict the future. You see, I never jaywalked in my life before today, but something made me do it.”
* * *
ISABEL SAT ON the blue velvet sofa and sipped a cup of chamomile tea. After she and Alec finished their drinks, she returned to her suite, ran a hot bath, and soaked in jasmine bubbles. Now she nibbled a macaron and gazed at the night sky and silver lights twinkling in the Place de la Concorde.
She flipped through a travel guide and thought of all the things she and Neil had planned to do in Paris: climb to the viewing terrace of the Arc de Triomphe and look out over the Boulevard Haussmann, order Ritz Side Cars at Bar Hemingway and visit the fruit markets in Montmartre.
A leather-bound notebook lay on the coffee table and she picked it up. When Neil proposed, she started a journal to record the wonderful things that would happen during their engagement.
She knew she should have left the journal at home. She didn’t have to be reminded of picking out Wedgwood china and trying on chiffon wedding dresses while she was sitting alone in the honeymoon suite of the Hôtel de Crillon.
But somehow leaving it behind made it feel as if the whole engagement never happened. She wasn’t ready to put it away, like a pretty wool sweater you received as a Christmas present but couldn’t wear because the fabric was scratchy.
In the beginning everything about their engagement was exciting. She and Neil were so happy and she was certain their love would last forever.
She opened it and a photo fell out. Neil had his arm draped around her and she displayed the emerald-cut diamond ring on her finger.
Dear diary,
Goodness, I haven’t kept a diary since my freshman year in college! But all the wedding books say keeping an engagement journal is the best way to remember the start of your new life. And if every day is like today, I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
Neil said his boss gave him tickets to see Jersey Boys on Broadway and he booked two nights at the Carlyle. I almost didn’t go, I have a huge presentation and planned on preparing all weekend. But Neil promised we could both squeeze in time to work, and how could I resist Manhattan in the fall? The department store windows are filled with winter fashions and Central Park is a myriad of colors and the whole city buzzes with a new energy.
The musical was wonderful and I was ready to go back to our suite and order room service. But Neil had made reservations at Jean-Georges! It has three Michelin stars and it’s right on Central Park.
From the moment the maître d’ meets you at the door, you feel like you’ve been transported to Paris. The floors are polished wood and the booths are scattered with silk cushions and the waiters have French accents and wear white dinner jackets.
We ordered the tasting menu and every course was accompanied by a Zinfandel or Chenin Blanc. The butter-poached turnips were delicious and the garlic soup with sautéed frog legs was superb.
Then the waiter brought out a plate with a mille-feuille drizzled with chocolate sauce. It was my favorite dessert when I studied at the Sorbonne. I loved the creamy custard and powdered sugar and flaky pastry.
I looked closer and realized, instead of a strawberry on top, there was a sparkling diamond ring! I gasped and Neil’s face broke into a smile.
“I wanted to propose in Paris, but we’re both too busy to get away,” he said, taking my hand. “I love you and want to do everything with you: travel to Europe and ride horses on the farm and sail on the Delaware River. You are bright and beautiful and I can’t imagine life without you. Isabel Marie Lawson, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I breathed, feeling the warmth of his palm. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The waiters clapped and the maître d’ presented us with a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Neil slipped the ring on my finger and we shared the mille-feuille and I’ve never been so happy. Neil is caring and handsome and it was the most romantic moment of my life.
I bought this notebook at the Carlyle gift shop and promise to fill it with all the excitement of the coming year. We haven’t talked about the ceremony location or number of guests, but I know two things: I want a winter wedding, and our honeymoon will be in Paris. I can’t wait to arrive in the City of Light as Mr. and Mrs. Neil Harmon!
Good night, dear diary. Or I should say, bon nuit.
Isabel closed the notebook and gazed out the window. It was beginning to snow and Place de la Concorde was bathed in a golden light. It had been wonderful to be in love and certain about their future. Would she ever feel that way again?
She had read the whole passage without crying; surely she had made the right decision. If she were in love with Neil, she would be longing for him to be here in the hotel suite.
She jumped up and walked to the closet. She didn’t need Neil to see Monet’s water lilies at L’Orangerie or buy first edition books at Shakespeare and Company. And she wasn’t afraid to sit at Le Fumoir and eat herring marinated in sherry by herself.
She noticed her beige pumps and remembered being locked out on the balcony.
“This vacation isn’t going as planned,” she said aloud. “First I almost freeze to death, then I come close to getting run over.”
She walked to the living room and sank into a damask armchair. She gazed at the silver tray set with two porcelain demitasses and a selection of hazelnut truffles and nougats.
“I think I’ll stay inside tonight.” She picked up another macaron. “Paris will be here tomorrow.”